


Symphony

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Estd Johnlock, Fluffy Smut, M/M, in which Quill attempts to write toplock, smutty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John," he said, in a slightly strangled voice.</p><p>"What? What happened?" John asked, slightly worried at the tone of his voice.</p><p>"I just—I just wanted to tell you, that—" he breathed heavily, his warm breath ruffling John's hair. "That sometimes the depth of what I feel for you frightens me."</p><p>It's a medical fact that hearts can be broken. John would know, since he's a doctor. But if Sherlock has taught him anything at all, it is that they can be mended just as well. John would know, since he's in love.</p><p>Fluff. Smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are love! :)

 

It's a medical fact that hearts can be broken. Sometimes your grief is so strong, your misery so overpowering, that your heart can simply give up. John would know, since he's a doctor. It feels that way when one half of your soul is missing, one part of your being that makes you complete and whole. But if Sherlock has taught him anything, it is that hearts can be mended just as well. John would know, since he's in love.

When he woke up, tangled in bed sheets and sweating torrents, he was not met with the dead silence of the night, but the soothing, calming strains of the second movement of Mozart's Einekleine. One of John's personal favourites. And one that Sherlock would play whenever they had a fight. It made him feel warm inside, in the midst of that all that terror.

He lay there for a few moments, his heart still hammering frantically in his chest, his breath coming in sharp, staccato bursts, the adrenalin and the fear and the horror still running thick and heavy in his blood. The space next to him was empty but wrinkled, still slightly warm from the weight of the body that had been laying there moments before.

He heard light footsteps and the sound of the music growing closer, and then Sherlock came in, dressed only in his dressing gown and pyjama pants, his violin tucked under her chin, his bow moving slowly across the strings. His hair was sleep tousled, and his silver eyes were stroked with worry, but he didn't say anything. He just stood there, at the doorway, the moonlight creating edges and shadows on his pale, angular face; gazing at John, continuing to play, longing to lull him back to sleep with the sound.

John's breathing slowed, his heart started to beat a bit more steadily. The last few strains of the music faded, and then Sherlock stopped, his arms falling to his side.

The very last remnants of the nightmare faded away, but John didn't go back to sleep. Sherlock moved over, laying down on his side of the bed then, snuggling as close as possible to John, burying his face in the crook of his neck, wrapping his arms around him, breathing in the scent of his sweat and fear.

"I love you," he whispered into his neck.

"I love you too," John whispered back, turning over so he could look into those silver eyes he knew so well. "But I'm not sleepy."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. "But I thought—I played—I could play again, if you want—"

"No, you idiot," John chuckled quietly under his breath, inching forward so he could place a light kiss on the frown between Sherlock's brow. "I just don't want to go back to sleep. Fancy a cuppa?"

* * *

In the end, Sherlock made tea.

Oh, it was terrible, alright. Sherlock had many talents, but making tea was not one of them. That was, as he said, 'John's area'. But Sherlock always felt out of his depth when John had a nightmare, and he tried to do everything in his power to ensure John's well being. He played the violin, he tried sex, he cuddled, he hugged, he kissed, he gave John a bath, he even once tried singing him back to sleep. John usually did fall back to sleep, which was why Sherlock wasn't quite able to decide what to do now that John had simply  _refused_ to. So, he decided to make tea. John concluded that this was more of a coping mechanism for Sherlock than for him.

So he drank it, trying not to make a grimace at the excessive sugar, lounging in his armchair as the fire cackled; watching Sherlock move around the clutter of the living room, cursing furiously to himself as he searched for something.

"Sherlock, love," John called after a while. Because maybe Sherlock just needed his sleep, and it was a bad idea to have brought him out of bed as well. He slept so little in any case, he might as well rest for as few hours as he could. "What are you doing?" He put the half empty cup on top of the fireplace.

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed, bringing out an old radio set and placing it on the dining table. " _This_." Then he flicked a button and music filled the room.

John frowned at the whole scene. It was a pretty classical piece, Purcell  _Randeau,_ he recognized- and he could already see Sherlock gently swaying to it. "Sherlock—"

"John," Sherlock drawled, turning around to face him. Then he grinned; and he looked beautiful and gorgeous and John needed to stop himself from launching across the room and snogging the hell out of him. Sherlock moved closer, and held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

John couldn't help the smile slowly spreading across his face. "At 3 am?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, at 3 am," he scowled. "Now give me your hand, John," he added rather petulantly.

"I thought I was supposed to agree to the dance," John replied, smirking.

"Mere formality," Sherlock took John's wrist anyway, dragging him into the slightly clutter-free zone between the kitchen and the sitting room. "Don't you want to dance with me?" he pouted.

"Is this some slow seduction technique?" John asked, hooking his arms around Sherlock's neck. "Because it's working." And it definitely was. He wasn't sure how long he could last, considering the pale expanse of Sherlock's lightly muscled chest lay before him and it was taking a great deal of willpower not to lean forward and bury his face in it.

"Oh,  _please_ , Doctor," Sherlock drawled, wrapping his arms around John's waist. "At this stage of our relationship, I sincerely hope that I do not need to  _seduce_ you."

"You have rather a high opinion of yourself."

"Always. Now don't move your right foot quite so much."

They started to move slowly, and John had never been much of a dancer, but Sherlock took the lead, pulling him closer against his body so that they could sway together to the music. It wasn't really much of a dance, but John didn't care, because he laid his head against Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock laid his cheek on top of his head, and it was the most comforting thing he could have ever imagined. He realised Sherlock had just devised a new way of calming him after his nightmares. They moved together for a while, listening to the sound of each other breathing, as the music swelled and flowed and filled the room.

And then John felt Sherlock tighten his grip around John, holding him so close and so tight that John was pressed against his collarbone, and the scent of Sherlock's skin seemed to fill his every sense.

"John," he said, in a slightly strangled voice.

"What? What happened?" John asked, slightly worried at the tone of his voice.

"I just—I just wanted to tell you, that—" he breathed heavily, his warm breath ruffling John's hair. "That sometimes the depth of what I feel for you frightens me."

John disentangled himself from Sherlock, moving his arms to grip his hips, keeping him at arm's length so he could look into his face. His eyes widened and John couldn't help but cup both sides of that dear, dear face, and carefully press his lips to Sherlock's.

His lips parted immediately under the warm, wet touch of John's mouth, and John moved his lips against his slowly, taking his time to worship every inch of that luscious, bow shaped mouth, licking and biting and nibbling those full lips until he couldn't breathe. He pulled away then, slightly satisfied at the flush in Sherlock's cheeks and his shallow breathing. His hands were still cradling his face, his fingers buried in that glorious mop of hair, and Sherlock bent down and leaned his forehead against John.

"I know," John whispered, closing his eyes, relishing and cherishing the feeling of Sherlock's skin. "Because sometimes I love you so much it hurts."

"Just sometimes?" Sherlock asked, a hint of petulance to his voice.

"Bastard," John muttered, chuckling weakly. "But yeah. Mostly it's this sort of dull ache, because- because—how do I explain it? Because my heart's too full and—Jesus, I sound like a sap. What have you done to me?"

"Nothing at all," Sherlock murmured, pushing him back until the small of his back was pinned to the dining table. "You always were a romantic," he kissed John's temple, whispering against his skin. "' _I'm_ the machine. The brain without a heart."

"Don't flatter yourself. Do you remember what you just said?" John wrapped his fingers around the nape of his neck to pull him closer. He couldn't seem to get close enough to him.

"Oh  _John_ ," Sherlock practically moaned. "I am only that person for you. Just for you."

John grinned, almost blushing. "You're a romantic at heart, Sherlock Holmes."

"Again, just for you," and then he wrapped his arms around John again, burying his nose in his hair, inhaling deeply. "I  _do_ hope none of Mycroft's cameras caught that. I wouldn't hear the end of it."

" _Please_ don't tell me your elder brother's bugged our living room."

"I wouldn't put it past him."

John groaned.

"Oh but don't worry. I can think of several ways we can scandalise the five senses out of him and make sure he's too frightened to ever have a look in them again."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you going to fuck me just to spite your brother?"

"No, I'm going to fuck you because I love you very much and I can't keep my hands off you. Especially when you're in that sweat-drenched shirt and those boxers that are doing absolute  _wonders_ for your arse."

"Flattery," John grumbled. "You devious strop."

And then Sherlock kissed John, hard and deep and wet; his tongue slipping between John's unresisting lips without restraint, exploiting John's mouth mercilessly. John's lips parted and he couldn't help the breathy moan that passed them, an incoherent whimper of Sherlock's name that seemed to have a direct effect on Sherlock's libido. He pressed forward, biting down on John's lower lip and flicking his tongue across the spot, his fingers clutching the fabric at the front of his shirt. He grinded shamelessly against him, pressing his own hardening cock against John's, and John felt like there was still  _too_ much space between them, and he wanted to eliminate everything else, every other little thing, until all he could see and taste and feel was Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's thick hair, returning that kiss with his own ferocity, sending a clear message of  _You're mine, and I'm yours_.

He reached forward and tugged impatiently at the dressing gown until it fell off his bony shoulders, and that gorgeous torso with the delicate collarbone and the slender neck and the toned abdomen with that thin trail of hair leading under the waistline of his pyjamas, that hung low on his slender hips  _just so_...and John ran his hands down Sherlock's flushed chest, down his hardening nipples and the skin, feeling, relishing,  _worshipping_ the man in front of him.

Sherlock pulled away, his hair dishevelled and messy, his pupils dilated and his lips parted and swollen and red, and John couldn't bear to have that mouth away from his own.

"Not here," Sherlock growled. "I refuse to fuck you against a table."

"We've fucked in a sodding supply closet at the  _Yard_ and you're getting uptight about the  _dining table_?"

"The supply closet was your idea!" Sherlock protested, grabbing him and leading him to the rug in front of the fireplace.

"You enjoyed it," John pulled them both down, Sherlock hastily wrenching off his t-shirt and throwing it unceremoniously behind him somewhere.

"I enjoy all sexual activities as long as I'm doing them with you," Sherlock said primly, pushing John back against the rug and climbing on top of him. "In supply closets at the yard and dark alleyways and behind Angelo's and on dining tables and against the refrigerator and on rugs in front of the fireplace," he kissed John's chin, moving down his throat, running his lips down his Adam's apple and the hollow at the base of it, down in the middle of his chest; his lips warm and wet against his already hyper sensitive skin. He flicked a tongue over his nipple, which caused John to arch his back and his cock to become so hard that the boxers were becoming a bit of a problem.

"Well you damn well be  _only_ participating in sexual activities with me," John growled.

"Oh John," John could hear the smirk in his voice. "Jealousy  _does_ certainly suit you. It makes me so...what do you say?  _Hot_."

He latched his mouth to his nipple, sucking and biting while John thrashed under him mumbling something along the lines of  _Sherlockpleasefuckme._

"Take off your pants," John muttered.

"Is that an  _order_ , Captain Watson?"

" _Take off your pants_."

And so Sherlock did, pulling that bottle of cherry-flavored lube out of nowhere, laying on top of John, sliding down the length of his body, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulling them right down.

Sherlock's fingers were a gift to all mankind, a gift that only John could claim; and with his usual dexterity Sherlock slathered them both generously, laying on top of John, kissing him once more, but slowly, deeply, lovingly. John moved his fingers across his back, gasping against his mouth as Sherlock filled him completely, slowly, deliciously. He threw his head back and moaned, and when he began to move, he seemed to see stars. He groaned and moaned and whimpered as Sherlock rutted slick and sure, hard and fast against him, somehow managing to draw out an orgasm that would be almost explosive. He lay beneath him, meeting him thrust for thrust, push for push, crying and sobbing out his name because was it possible to adore another human being quite so much?

He clutched at his hair and tugged, muttering,  _Oh fuck Sherlock, yeah, yeah just like that, Jesus Christ- oh god, Sherlock-_ And there Sherlock was, his body flush against his own, his voice wanton and needy as he mumbled,  _John, John, oh god John, John I loveyousomuch John neverleave me John, oh fuck JOHN_.

And he called back, sweet and filthy nothings as Sherlock rode him, until blessedly, finally, he came; screaming out his name like a sodding prayer- and he was pretty sure he was loud enough to have woken up Ms. Hudson. With a few final thrusts, Sherlock orgasmed with an utterly debauched cry of " _John!"_ and he felt the slickness, warm and wet fill them both, as Sherlock collapsed on top of him, shaking and trembling and panting, his heart a frantic tattoo against his own.

"Fuck," Sherlock groaned, which was just a sign of how much he enjoyed that, because Sherlock rarely cursed. He rolled off of John, panting heavily, his pale chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Well I hope Mycoft is scandalised enough," John finally said.

"Oh, he is. Fuck you, Mycroft," Sherlock slurred, raising his middle finger and waving it around the room, in the vague direction of a probable camera.

"Do you think that particular phrase is appropriate, considering what we just did, right in front of the fireplace?"

"Oh my god John," Sherlock groaned, covering his face with his long fingered hands. "We just had sex with each other, please don't mess up my brain with that hideous mental image."

John chuckled.

Then Sherlock suddenly turned to him, as if struck by a sudden thought. "I should clean you up. You're filthy."

" _You're_ filthy."

"We both are. You're practically covered in it. Wait. Don't move."

"I have no intention to."

And Sherlock got up, and John took full opportunity of checking out his lover's smashing arse as he walked across the room and returned with a wet flannel, proceeding to wipe John down almost tenderly.

"You're  _such_ a romantic," John mumbled sleepily, too tired to protest. "I don't care what you say."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, throwing the soiled flannel away somewhere. "Yes, darling," he replied dryly, pulling the quilt down from the couch and throwing it over John, snuggling in himself.

He pressed himself closer to John, who was already half asleep, wrapping his body around John like a vine. It was cold, but Sherlock's body heat was enough to warm him up. He snuggled closer himself, until there was hardly anything separating them. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, caging him into the protective circle of his embrace, burying his lips in John's hair.

"God, I love you so much," John whispered.

"I love you too," Sherlock replied, his voice low.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me you will never leave again. Promise me you will not go where I cannot follow. Promise me that."

Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath, as both of them remembered that dark period of their lives that they hardly ever talked about- it was a time of misery and pain and loss for both of them, a time that they had tried hard to forget. But some wounds take time to heal, and even if Sherlock was back, neither of them would ever be able to forget the two years that almost killed them both.

"I promise, oh god, John, I promise," Sherlock babbled repeatedly, tightening his hold. "Never again."

John buried his face against Sherlock's chest, relishing the feel of the warmth of his skin, of the heart that was beating, steady and sure, final proof that Sherlock was  _here_ and  _alive_ and in his arms, and he fell asleep, wrapped in his embrace. There were no more nightmares that night. There would be more, and there would be many other horror-filled nights. But, of course, midnight lovemaking in front of the fireplace was to be recommended to chase them away. John would know, since he's the one who now makes sure there's a tube of lube hidden under the skull.

* * *

The next morning when Sherlock woke up, there was a text from his brother on his phone.

_If you were so desperate to have the bugs removed, you only had to ask._

_-MH_


End file.
